Not this year, at least.
The family pre-empted the holiday at Margot for brunch yesterday. Champagne, shiny heart-shaped stickers, a round-robin of our delectably eggy entrees, storytelling, French press and one order (five spoons) of house-made chocolate-hazelnut ice cream.
Mom gave me a pair of little pink polka-dot, lounge-y boxer shorts. I feel incredibly girly in them.
I bought myself a bunch of pink tulips, listened to love songs and wore poppy lipstick all day long (with my really lovely running pants and blue bandanna covering dirty hair).
I spent a leisurely, sunny morning in the kitchen with a strong pot of coffee constructing lunch for a few gals down at Sarah's. Got to hold Livi, my newest Valentine (eleven days old, to be exact). We had a Nicoise Salad with mustard-dill grilled chicken and zucchini-broccoli soup with lemon mint yogurt. For a bit of something sweet, we finished with pears roasted with honey, golden raisins, almonds and pumpkin seeds topped with a splot of vanilla yogurt. We talked and laughed til we cried about first dates and adolescence and breast feeding (sorry).
Joshua showed up this afternoon with a bunch of daisies and tulips, fresh-ground peanut butter (the honey roasted kind because he knows I love it), a bar of good, super-dark chocolate, the dearest card with heartfelt sentiments which I'll keep and read over and over again when I need reassuring, and an impromptu happy hour cocktail called the Bees Knees, involving honey and lavender and much mmmmmmm-ing and lip-smacking.
Reba called this evening with stories of hilarity and we belly laughed.
Then dad, the original, appeared on my doorstep tonight with a single, delightful, heady rose, a kiss and a cup of Sweet Cece's to share (original tart with Golden Grahams, granola and fresh blackberries -- he read my mind).
Although I'm not being romanced, I'm sure being loved.